“Somewhere in the mountains, in old times of kings and queens… “
He is somehow on top of world, but feels at the end of it.
His pupils can’t decide on what to focus first: the green hills picturing his freedom, or the grey sky piercing his heart with emptiness. He’s at the border of two worlds.
Now that the old, coarse wrinkled man sees the light of day, where would his feet take him to? It’s late, it’s cold, and he’s avoiding the answer for some years. He shook his head and just walked away, without any target.
Ignore his ashy pale face, and look into his blade sharp eyes…
How many stories of life, love, hatred, trust or mistrust would they have been witnessed?
If traveling in time, I’d take my pencil and my notebook, and I’d approach him. Encouraged to talk, he’d start telling me his story, and I’ll try to keep up with him.
And it’s not about the speed of the story, but the amount of ideas that keep on flowing from the old guy. Haven’t confessed in years long makes him eager to share everything.
His eyes enlighten by each story, a veal of sadness is erased, and it looks that at least a couple of years disappeared from his not-so-ashy-now skin.
By the time we finish, he fixes his gaze on me and asks where do I come from, and the reply is:
“From somewhere in the plains, of new times, where restless young people should be learning to listen, cherish and love their beautiful old fellows” .
He gently pokes my shoulder, thanks me and leaves, going to write a few more pages in the story of his life.